


Trust

by madcowmama



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, doctor mechanic, wanheda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 11:24:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4744493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madcowmama/pseuds/madcowmama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wanheda’s arrival has stirred everyone up, and Raven is determined to find the mechanism by which she can quell the disturbance, and if possible, drive out Wanheda.</p><p>And if possible, keep Clarke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust

Ravenous, Raven comes to Abby— the night of _Wanheda_ ’s arrival— and falls on her, wordlessly consuming her. Needy, gasping, grasping, Abby jags with her, all teeth and claws, much as it had been before, silent, obscure, their passion obsession, compulsion. Habit.

Abby stops. Raven doesn’t.

“Raven. Honey.”

“Shhhhhh.”

“Raven, be _here_ with me. Otherwise, I can’t.”

“Fine.” Raven rolls off her, off the bed, buttons up, and braces up. “I’ll go somewhere else.”

“Stay. Please stay and talk to me. Clarke—”

“That is not Clarke.”

Raven speaks truth, or at least part truth. The living skeleton that had shown up at the gate this morning once could have been Clarke, but having destroyed hundreds, possibly more, having wandered alone in the woods for months, _Wanheda_ , emaciated, filthy, teeming with who knows what vermin, probably out of her mind— _Wanheda_  once may have been Clarke, but now is more— and less— than the Clarke they have known.

“ _Ai laik Wanheda kom no kru en hogeda kru_ ,” she’d said.

With a rush of inhaled air, the people of Camp Jaha stepped a little away.

Abby, torn, also moved away from _Wanheda_ , wary, chilled, frightened. Stomach churning, she did one thing she knew to do. She brought _Wanheda_ stew.

 _Wanheda_ had spoken few words since, all of Trigedasleng, but she’d eaten voraciously.

Drawn and repulsed, Abby recognized that _Wanheda_ started life as her daughter, but Abby still could not bring herself to touch her. As if she was infected. As if she was some kind of reaper. As if she was beyond medical help.

Beyond Abby’s help, anyway.

“ _Wanheda_ , then.” Abby corrects herself now, and Raven turns away from the door.

“ _Wanheda_ , destroyer of worlds. She should never have come here.”

Abby’s forehead creases.

A scream outside leads to cries and clashes, impact and fighting. Raven and Abby go to the windowseat Raven once built into the wall to see Bellamy fending off several Arkers from _Wanheda_ with a shock lash. Abby’s breathing goes ragged, her body jolts with each strike of the wand, and sweat films her forehead. She can almost swear she sees a skeleton army lurking in the dark beyond the fence, waiting, waiting to follow _Wanheda_ wherever she goes.

The lash connects, and Bellamy bellows, “Stop! Go back to your quarters! She never hurt you! She saved you!”

A hush falls, followed by the slump of people relinquishing their rage to grieve.

“I’m sorry, Clarke,” they hear Bellamy say, “I think you’ll be safer in the brig.” And with a slight nod, _Wanheda_ allows him to escort her there for the night.

Raven’s hand has gone to the small of Abby’s back in the meantime, steadying her. As Abby turns toward her, light catches the sheen in her eyes, which brings Raven back, reconnects them, and the two of them stagger back to the bed.

They undress and slide under covers and look at each other for a long time, holding hands, holding each other’s faces, for a long time, until Abby, at least, at last, falls asleep. Raven doesn’t. Once Abby is asleep, Raven silently dresses, goes to the window and stares out. She can’t see them, but she senses the dead that follow _Wanheda_.

All at once she knows they follow her, too. Almost all of them. Because Clarke may have given the word, Clarke may have pulled the trigger, but Raven— Raven, her agent. Raven, her sword. Raven, her scythe. Raven even provided the dagger Clarke used to execute Finn.

Is not the welder of the weapon as much at fault as its wielder?

Certainly they had their reasons. Certainly it was life and death. Certainly they were working together to save their people. Certainly. Nevertheless, numerous, numberless skeletons were freed from their flesh because of Raven.

Raven wonders if her bond with Clarke owes its existence to their shared ruthlessness. Is she _Wanheda’s_ second? Her long strong arm?

Raven’s stomach gives warning, and she makes her way, just in time, to the pit toilet, flashes of murder and gore in her eyes. She sweats heavily, as if feeling the heat that crisped the bones of those three hundred beneath the drop ship.

She cleans herself up and is beginning to broach the Mountain when she finds herself in the brig.

She can tell the creature’s hair is blonde, though it is filthy, matted with leaves, moss, fungus. Her face is smeared with blood and clay, her eye sockets with charcoal. The rags that cover her reek of mildew and offal. _Wanheda_ doesn’t stir.

“Clarke,” she says softly, and “Clarke,” a little louder. “I know you’re in there. C’mon.”

But _Wanheda_ doesn’t stir.

 _Wanheda_ waits. _Wanheda_ listens. _Wanheda_ breathes so slowly as to be taken for sleeping. Or dead. Once Raven is gone, _Wanheda_ waits longer before opening one eye. The smell of this place, its stuffy sterile stink of the sky ships, brings the _Clarke_ to the surface.

Clarke sits up, her sight clearing. She stretches her hands out in front of her, regarding her ragged claws, clotted with mud or blood. She removes her cloak and tries the barred door. Bellamy has locked her in. She retrieves _Wanheda_ ’s memory— it’s for her own safety.

She sits blinking, thinking. Why has she returned? She left to carry their burden, her burden, away from them, so they could live. But she needs to live, too, with or without their burden. She needs to feed. She is ravenous.

 _Wanheda_ creeps forward, sniffing rage, sniffing fear. She strengthens herself with them. She must strengthen herself, gather together the rage and fear these people can no longer deny, take it all forth and do what _Wanheda_ does best.

Pursue the one who ran.

For time unmeasured now she has been haunting the Commander’s periphery, then vanishing. She was too weak to do more. Clarke’s grief drained _Wanheda_ , until the necessities of life crowded out the grief, when fear allowed rage a foothold. Then _Wanheda_ became stronger, strong enough to come here, to feed.

Clarke looks up as Abby steps into the room, Raven hanging back in the doorway.

Abby unlocks the door of the cell and slips in, unslinging her bag from her shoulder. She begins cleaning the cuts on Clarke’s face.

Something about the care, the Doctor’s care, the Mother’s care, something about a caring human touch brings Clarke foremost. She flicks her eyes up, and the shared glance makes both of them gasp.

“Clarke,” Abby breathes.

“Mom.”

As Abby slips her arms around Clarke, Raven slips out. In the night, in the camp, she can still hear random conflict, bickering, falling objects, thrown objects, draughts of silence, washes of sobbing. _Wanheda’_ s arrival has stirred everyone up, and Raven is determined to find the mechanism by which she can quell the disturbance, and if possible, drive out _Wanheda_.

And if possible, keep Clarke.

She pauses outside Octavia’s tent.

“Lincoln? Octavia?” She calls softly.

Soon after, two horses pound out the gate, Lincoln and Octavia speeding for Polis, in hopes of retrieving _Wanheda_ ’s key.

Raven turns over Octavia’s parting comment in her mouth. “ _Wanheda_ is a child.”

 _Wanheda_ a child? _Wanheda_ is a monster, Raven thinks, bringing her image into her mind. _Wanheda_ killed and tortured and killed some more and returned to draw out the torture, marking each one of the Arkers, each one remaining of the 100, with blood. But if _Wanheda_ is a child— and Clarke became an adult the day Jaha and Abby and Kane sent them down here— could _Wanheda_ then grow the fuck up?

Sometimes people do bad things. Sometimes they do them for good reasons. Sometimes they regret and grieve and make amends. Sometimes they cut away the bad things, put them in a box, forget they even happened.

Raven stops back by their quarters on her way to the brig only to find Abby and Clarke there, quiet, Abby taking the knots and debris out of Clarke’s hair. Raven sits beside Abby and starts working on the other side of Clarke’s hair. Small repetitive movements soothe the three of them, a calm combat against the chaos that feeds _Wanheda_. Their breathing synchronizes. Around dawn, Clarke’s hair is clean enough to start braiding.

Abby follows Raven’s lead now, making tiny, regular braids starting at the bottom of her hairline and moving row by row to the top of her head. They take a very long time.

The touch, the tiny tugging at her scalp, the brushes of their arms against her skin, the faint pressure of their legs against hers, the simple act of human caring keeps Clarke present, drives the child _Wanheda_ underground. _Wanheda_ is starving but has no strength.

Bellamy brings breakfast at some point, and they break to eat, still silent.

Hours later, as they finish the braiding, and the braiding of the braids, there is a disturbance outside, hooves and shouting. Abby brings one arm around Clarke and one arm around Raven. Raven mirrors her. Clarke wraps her arms over theirs. They breathe together.

Lincoln and Octavia enter the room, Lexa between them. Lexa stops as Clarke’s eyes meet hers. Lexa’s breath is audible as she sinks to her knees.

“Clarke,” she whispers.

Clarke rises, slipping from Raven and Abby’s arms.

“Take my arms,” says Lexa.

Lincoln and Octavia grasp Lexa between them.

“Give her my blade.”

Octavia hesitates for the barest instant before drawing Lexa’s sword and presenting it to Clarke. Abby and Raven share a glance behind Clarke’s head.

The glimmer of fear in the room gives _Wanheda_ the strength to shimmer out from Clarke’s eyes. Lexa lifts her chin, never breaking her gaze. Steel rises and slices.

Lexa never closes her eyes.

Abby turns and squeezes her face into Raven’s neck as Clarke freezes the edge a hair’s breadth from Lexa’s throat.

The blade begins to shiver, Clarke’s arms quivering, trembling, agonist versus antagonist, muscles at war, fatiguing. Lexa stays utterly still, open, inviting the kill.

And when the blade falls, Lexa’s eyes and mouth soften, and her chin drops in a single slight nod.

“Let her go,” commands Clarke, as Abby and Raven wrap her between them again.

“Let _her_ go,” commands Lexa.

They can’t help themselves— everybody releases everybody else.

And they all release their breath.

“Don’t ever,” Abby musters, “ever again, come into my quarters without knocking.”

Raven bursts out laughing.

“And Commander,” says Abby, “if you want to play with weapons in your house, fine, but we do not play with weapons in my house. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Chancellor.”

“Clarke? Is that understood?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Octavia, Lincoln, you owe us an apology.”

“Sorry, Ma'am.”

Raven hasn’t been able to stop laughing yet. Tears stream down her face, as she tries to stifle herself.

Clarke extends her hand to Lexa, who takes it and stands.

“Clarke of _Skaikru_ , you are a natural leader. But you lack training. _Wanheda_ may always be with you, but you can master her. You can embrace her, absorb her, harness her talents.”

“Head or heart, _Heda_?” Says Clarke.

“I made that decision with my head, Clarke. Come with me to Polis and learn to use yours.”

Clarke, out of long habit, turns to her mother with a question in her eyes.

“You became an adult the day I sent you here to die,” croaks Abby.

Raven takes her hand.

“Mom?”

“Raven taught me that.”

Clarke opens and closes her mouth. “Okay. Okay. Just—” She points at Raven. “You— are not my mother.”

“No, I’m not,” says Raven, then with a grin, “I’m your cool mom.”

Clarke picks up the sword.

“Fair enough,” Raven says. Then to Octavia, “Can you find them a bunk? And take them back to Polis in the morning?”

Octavia nods, and the four of them go.

“Still feel like I’m holding my breath,” says Abby, wrapping her arms around Raven.

“I will be until they’re gone,” says Raven.

“I will be until _we’re_ okay.”

“We are okay. Abby? Right?”

“I hear things. And I see things. And Honey, I can’t be your— scratching post— when things get rough. We’ve all been through so much. I want to support you— I want you to support me— but sex without you _here_ — I thought we’d moved on from that?”

Raven can’t hold her gaze. Then, to make it worse, tears, a different kind of tears, tears of shame, of grief, start dripping down her face. Raven shakes loose from Abby, wrapping her arms around herself. She starts shivering. She’s freezing.

“Raven,” Abby soothes, “Sweetheart, we can work through these things. I want to. I want to be with you, but I want to be—”

“Conscious. I know. Conscientious. Adult.” Raven nods. “Yeah, me too.”

“Good. Now lock the door and come lie down with me.”


End file.
